The e-mail came across Marti Hudson’s desk at Colorado Christian University sometime in December. It was a brief response to some general information sent to fall and spring graduates.

Thank you, Ben Seidl wrote, “however, I am currently deployed to Kabul, Afghanistan and will not be available for the 9 May ceremony. I will not be home until 31 May or later. When is the next scheduled ceremony after 9 May?”

That got Hudson’s attention. Her son, Jason, an Army Reservist, was also in Afghanistan, about 40 miles north of Seidl’s post. He’d left in December on a six-month stint.

She e-mailed Seidl back. Thanked him for his service to the country. Told him she prayed God would watch over him. Told him about Jason. We only do one commencement a year, she wrote, but let me know when you return.

At the time, she was thinking the university could arrange a simple ceremony after Ben returned. Seidl e-mailed back. You’re welcome, he wrote. “It seems that not many people remember that we are here; Iraq is taking the focus; it’s nice to know that our job here is appreciated.”

Hudson would learn later that Seidl was 38, born in Oregon, in the Air Force 19 years, a master sergeant. He’d been studying at CCU for his Bachelor of Science in project management for three years.

But that day, he signed off with this: “This is my first degree, I just wanted to be able to have a picture and send it to my dad. I am the first person in my family to go to college and I know he would be proud.”

Hudson’s heart broke wide open.

The world is full of good people. Obvious. But easy to forget. If anything, the whirlwind that has followed the e-mails has been as much an expression of congratulations as it is a vow: We will not forget you.

In a university office possessing the blandest and most bureaucratic of names, Management Information Systems, Hudson, the office director, reads the words of this student she has never met and takes them to her boss, and wheels start turning.

Seidl completes his university classes via e-mail. He writes of his faith and service and family. He writes to his girlfriend, Christy. To his children, both students at Air Academy High in Colorado Springs. To Hudson:

“It is amazing how lucky we are in America, making 200 times more a month than that of an Afghani, but still considering ourselves poor. God said it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than it is for rich men to enter heaven. The poverty here is stunning, which has led them to the desperate measures they have taken. . . . I hope and pray that you are all safe and warm. I close my eyes and try to imagine standing in an open field right now, no body armor, no gun, no fear, no threats. Just watching the snow fall, watching my dog run, feeling my kids next to me.”

Jeanne Bolt, another university angel and the mother of a young man preparing for his second deployment to Iraq, calls Ben’s father, Robert Seidl, in Oregon. We’d like to bring you out for the commencement ceremony, she tells him.

Ben tells Christy he’s not sure what to make of the attention. I’m nothing special, he says. I’m just doing my job.

He writes to his dad: “Thank you for believing in me, and showing a good example, as it is never too late for a second chance, no matter how old we get.”

I call Dad. He’s outside building a patio. I’m just a jack-of-all-trades, he says. “I wrote down some information about Ben if you want it.” He tells me when and where Ben was born and where he went to school and how tall he is and how much he weighs and what sports he plays. He says Ben once said: ” ‘Dad, I don’t think I can make 20 years in the Air Force.’ And I told him, ‘Just click your heels and spin around three times, and soon you’ll be 38.’ And now he’s 38.”

He also tells me Ben served in the first Gulf War, in Somalia, in Iraq twice and now in Afghanistan. “He’s done his share,” Dad says. “You bet I’m proud. He’s the kind of guy you want to have around when the house is on fire.”

By the time I reach Ben, it’s past midnight in Afghanistan. He e-mails this before going to sleep: “This will mean a lot to my dad.”

Saturday’s commencement details are being worked out, but Seidl’s kids, his girlfriend and his father will have front-row seats. When the time comes, the university president plans to call on Ben’s father and present him with Ben’s diploma cover. The commencement planning- committee members decided to put boxes of tissue on every aisle seat. It’s the first time they’ve done that, but they figure they’ll need them.

The Fitzsimons Golf Course may, after 20 years of rumors, be closing at the end of this year to make way for bioscience master plans. As staff and regulars await a final date, they reminisce on the course’s nearly 100 years of history.